Текст книги "Convicted"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
Soon, Claire was in her nightgown and ready for sleep. As Meredith was about to leave, she remembered something else she’d brought Claire. “I almost forgot. I have a present for you.”
Meredith went to the food cart and removed a large package, wrapped in pink paper with a brighter pink bow, from the bottom shelf. The colorful box was a stark contrast to the bland room. When she turned back toward Claire, she saw a spark in Claire’s eyes she hadn’t seen in years.
“Do you want to open it now?” Meredith asked as she set the box next to Claire on the bed.
Claire nodded and whispered, “Yes.” Yet, instead of moving, Claire stared at the box.
“Is there a problem?”
“The paper”—“It’s so pretty.”
Meredith eased the bow off and carefully ran her finger under the tape. With the paper loosely covering the gift, she left it beside Claire on the bed. Apprehensively, Claire removed the paper and took off the lid. Pushing the tissue paper aside, she revealed three bright pink throw pillows. Two were circular and one was a square with ruffles. Hugging one of the pillows close to her chest, Claire smiled and asked, “Can they stay here?” “It would be great to have color.”
“Yes, and I’ll bring more color! We’ll get this room to reflect how much better you’re doing!”
“Oh”—“I’d like that.” Closing her eyes, Claire added, “I wish...”
Meredith waited for Claire’s voice to regain strength. When it didn’t, she asked, “What do you wish?”
“You’ve done too much”—“I can’t”—“ask for more.”
Meredith lifted Claire’s chin until their eyes met. “You saved me from jail today; what do you wish?”
“For the gray”—“to go away.”
“It will. Each day, we’ll make everything more colorful.”
Claire shook her head. “No”—“the gray in my hair”—“I’m not that old”—“What will Nichol think?”
Meredith smiled. “Oh, honey, I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll bring color back to your hair. What color do you want to be?” With a grin, she added, “More pink?”
With her head settled on her pillows, a faint smile came to Claire’s lips. “No, I like brown”—“I like brown”—“a lot.” Her eyes closed.
Meredith set the box on the floor, placed the pillows next to Claire and covered her with a blanket. Gathering Claire’s dinner dishes, she thought about Claire’s words. Yes, Meredith remembered the stories of Claire’s hair. She also knew the color of Tony’s eyes. It went without saying—Claire definitely liked brown.
Tomorrow, Meredith had a new goal—Claire’s hair would return to the beautiful shiny chestnut color she had in college. As she turned off the light and closed Claire’s door, Meredith giggled. Her job description was ever changing—soon she could add beautician to her résumé.
It's not so important who starts the game but who finishes it.
—John Wooden
The tropical sky darkened; hues of orange and red faded to black. Tony looked out toward the now calm sea as the ball of fire which warmed their world, once again, found its home below the horizon. As evidence of the ravaging the sea had endured at the hands of the tropical storm, seaweed and driftwood littered the normally pristine white sand surrounding the lagoon. The shore wasn’t its only victim. Palm trees lay precariously strewn across paths, over one another, all around the island, downed by the strong winds.
Tony paced between the windows and Claire’s delivery bed. Their mattress needed to be replaced, what difference did it make if their baby was born upon it? Madeline exchanged the cool compress on Claire’s forehead for a cooler one and fed Claire ice chips. Tony watched; however, his attention was divided between his wife and the men he’d sent out to sea. Every so often, he’d look out toward the water hoping—praying—for signs of Francis and Phil. Nearly two hours earlier, he’d received a call saying they were on their way back with Dr. Gilbert. The trip usually lasted thirty to forty minutes, so they should’ve arrived over an hour ago. Occasionally, Tony’s gaze would meet Madeline’s. Though she didn’t say a word, he knew by her furrowed brow that she too was worried. He just didn’t know if it were solely because of Francis, who’d warned them hundreds of times about navigating a boat after dark, or if it was also about Claire.
Claire’s stifled cries brought Tony away from the reflective glass panes to their brightly lit suite. Every light in their room was on, along with multiple additional lamps that Tony had retrieved from around the house. Claire’s contractions were occurring closer and closer together. He knelt beside her bed, kissed her cheek, and waited for her response. One moment, she wanted him near—the next moment, she didn’t want to be touched. At one time during the evening, Madeline cornered Tony in the bathroom, while he dampened more cloths for Claire’s head. “Monsieur, what Madame el is saying and feeling, it is normal. She needs you to stay strong.”
Tony nodded. He didn’t know what normal was anymore. His whole world was different than he’d ever foreseen. The addition of their child would only further propel it into an oblivion he never before knew existed, and as for strength—he could do that. It was his thing. If he could endure the pain he saw in Claire’s eyes in her stead, then he would without hesitation.
“You don’t have to be strong,” Tony encouraged. “Scream if you need to scream.” This time, she took his hand and squeezed. For a moment, he considered screaming. Never before had his petite, gentle wife exhibited so much strength. He worried the bones in his fingers may not survive; and then all at once, her grip lessened and the clouds of pain floated away revealing shiny emerald eyes as tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Where’s Dr. Gilbert?”
“He’ll be here soon.” Did he sound confident? Tony hoped he did. He tried multiple times to contact Phil by phone, but Tony knew the phones had poor reception when out to sea. The only way to make contact was the two-way radio. The transmitter and receiver were in the boathouse. Earlier, Tony mentioned going to the boathouse and trying to reach them, but Claire’s sudden look of panic stopped him in his tracks. She was determined that he needed to be with her. Didn’t she understand, he was useless, and Dr. Gilbert was the one she needed?
“Tony? Tony!?”
“I’m right here.”
Her face contorted as she made a sound he’d never heard.
“I’m right here. What can I do?” he asked.
Breathing through the pain, she spoke in but a whisper, “There’s so much pressure.”
Madeline lifted the sheet and felt between Claire’s legs. When her hand emerged, it was covered in blood. Tony felt his own blood drain from his face. Mercifully, he was on his knees. If he’d been standing, Tony feared his show of strength would fail as he’d be prone on the floor.
Madeline looked directly into his eyes. “Monsieur, we’re going to bring your bébé into this world.”
Tony nodded—at least he thought he did.
Madeline emphasized, “Now, Monsieur!”
Claire screamed as Madeline, once again, explored below the sheet.
Although Madeline’s voice was calm, her words took the air from Tony’s lungs. “I’m not feeling your bébé’s head. It’s too soft. She’s coming bottom first!”
Before he could respond, Claire’s hoarse voice pleaded, “Oh, please, please help my baby.”
Tony soothed her forehead with his hand, unsure what else to do. “Madeline, tell me what to do.”
“Let me see your hands, Monsieur.”
He did as she asked and held up his hands.
“Too large—I will help your child come. I worry about the cord. Did the doctor ever mention breach?”
Claire shook her head, tears flowing easier than words. “No, but the last ultrasound was almost two months ago.”
“She has turned, but it is all right. Many women deliver bébés this way. I worry about pulling if the cord is where it should not be.”
Claire’s breath was a ragged plea, “Please...I don’t care about me, save my baby.”
The hair on Tony’s neck stood to attention. “I care! We will save both of you!”
Before he finished declaring, Claire screamed again. The sound echoed through the house and over the island. Blood now covered Madeline’s hands and arms. Tony saw splashes on the front of her dress.
Madeline instructed, “Go to the kitchen; in the cabinet near the stove there is a case. It is brown. Bring it to me.”
Tony looked down into Claire’s now clouded eyes. Again, she cried out.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised as he kissed Claire’s damp head and stepped away. Rounding the end of the bed, Tony’s shoe slipped on the wooden floor. Looking down, he stopped. On the floor, seeping into the cracks between the bamboo planks, he saw a puddle of blood.
“Go, hurry!” Madeline’s command propelled his stilled feet.
Tony wasn’t well-versed on anything in a kitchen; however, he knew a stove and a cabinet. Flinging open the doors he found a brown case. When he opened the case, his heart stopped beating. The cutlery was shiny and clean with sharp looking blades. Bile rose in his throat as he imagined one of these knives being used on his wife. Tony couldn’t let Claire endure this pain without something. Quickly, he grabbed a bottle of bourbon. He’d make her drink if he had to; or perhaps it could be used to sterilize the knife. Tony didn’t know the exact reason; however, as he rushed back toward his bedroom, he held tightly to both the case and the bottle.
When he entered the brightly lit room, Claire’s eyes were closed and her chin rested against her chest. “What happened? What did you do?”
“Nothing, Monsieur, it’s her body. It knows. Her muscles must relax, and this way, she will not feel the pain. Please open the case.”
He did.
“That one, with the shorter blade”—then she saw the bottle—“Pour the bourbon over the blade.”
He wasn’t sure how he managed to move. Everything was on high alert, yet in slow motion at the same time. The red filling their room wasn’t that of anger—it was Claire’s blood. Tony wanted it all to stop.
As he handed the knife to Madeline, their eyes met. “Monsieur, I’m doing my best to save your child.”
“And my wife, Madeline—save my wife.”
She nodded.
At that moment, they heard the voices on the lanai. Turning, the doors to their suite opened and they saw Francis, Phil, and Dr. Gilbert. Francis said something about trees blocking their way as the doctor entered and assessed the scene. Looking to Tony, he said, “Mr. Rawlings, I need to wash my hands. Follow me and tell me everything.”
It was the abridged version—they didn’t have time for a full length novel. Tony emphasized the main points—Claire’s water broke roughly twenty-four hours ago—the contractions returned about six hours ago and had gained in intensity over the last two hours—she’d lost what appeared to be a lot of blood—had recently gone unconscious—and Madeline believed the baby was breach.
Dr. Gilbert nodded as he opened his bag. With a paper gown covering his clothes and surgical gloves over his hands, he took Madeline’s place at the end of the bed. When he eyed the knives, he nodded toward Madeline. “You have good instincts. Go wash your hands; I need an assistant.”
Tony moved to Claire’s head and stayed at her side. He talked in her ear and smoothed her perspiration drenched hair from her face. With all of his might, he tried not to listen to Dr. Gilbert and Madeline’s words. This wasn’t his personality. He was a take-charge person, a man who demanded all of the facts. Right now, he wanted to pretend everything was all right, especially when Dr. Gilbert asked, “Mr. Rawlings, I hope it won’t come to this; however, if you must choose between your wife and your child, what is your decision?”
How can anyone answer such a question? The life of the woman he loved more than life itself or the life of an innocent child who’d never experienced the world. Inhaling deeply, Tony looked Dr. Gilbert directly in the eye, and despite his new feeling of impotence, found his CEO voice, “Doctor, that decision will not be necessary. You will save them both.”
There wasn’t time to debate. Claire’s body continued to contract. Although she was unconscious, her muscles worked to expel their child. Tony heard the awful pop, sounding much like the puncturing of a piece of plastic. Burying his face in Claire’s shoulder he spoke—about what—he didn’t know. He talked about walks, lakes, and beaches. In the background, he heard a suctioning sound and the call for a scalpel. It wasn’t until he heard the cry of a baby, while still feeling the drum of Claire’s pulse under his fingertips, that he had the strength to lift his head.
In Dr. Gilbert’s hands, with Madeline gently wiping it clean, was the pinkest, most beautiful baby Tony had ever seen. He’d told himself that, if he needed to decide, it would have been Claire. He knew that was the way he would have gone. Once again, his life was a contradiction. He still would have chosen Claire; however, seeing the round face, tightly shut eyes, and open mouth—his body shuddered with relief, thankful he hadn’t been forced to make that decision.
Above the loud and proud wails of his child, Madeline proclaimed, “Monsieur, welcome your daughter.”
Before he could move, he squeezed Claire’s hand. “Doctor, is Claire..?” His voice trailed away, as he was unable to finish his question.
“She’s lost a lot of blood, as you said; but I believe once we deliver the placenta, place some stitches, and get her some fluids; your wife will be okay.”
With that reassurance, Tony stepped toward Madeline who now held his perfect baby girl wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes were shut, and she appeared content with the new warmth. The top of her small head had a thin layer of dark brown hair. Leaning near, Tony cooed, “Hello, my princess. I’m your daddy.”
The angst of the last few hours dissipated as Tony moved the rocking chair from the nursery and placed it near Claire’s head. After he washed his hands, he sat and Madeline placed their bundle of joy in his arms. Never had Tony imagined another woman taking residence in his heart. It belonged to Claire and had for a very long time. Once again, he’d been wrong. It wasn’t that the little girl he held replaced her mother—that wasn’t possible. No, this little girl expanded his heart, making her own space. It seemed unbelievable that his heart could grow—it wasn’t that long ago that Tony didn’t even know it existed. Gently, Tony kissed his daughter’s forehead and watched her nose crinkle.
“Monsieur, what is her name?” Madeline asked with anticipation.
“We’ll wait until Claire awakes. We never pinpointed one girl’s name.”
Tony saw the exchange of looks between Madeline and Dr. Gilbert. Dr. Gilbert explained their concern, “Mr. Rawlings, it’s almost midnight. The people of these islands are strong in their traditions and beliefs. No child should enter the next day without their proper name. It’ll bring uncertainty and unhappiness to the rest of its life.”
Tony looked at his watch; it was 11:53 PM. His mind went back over all of their naming discussions. They had gone through list after list of names. She’d said Blaine could be for a girl too, but that didn’t feel right. The conversation that came to Tony’s tired mind was one from when he first arrived on the island. This baby, he’d said, won’t be a Rawls or a Nichols but a Rawlings. She was a Rawlings; nevertheless, Rawls was part of Rawlings no matter how much Tony tried to run or hide from the fact, and his daughter was also a Nichols, something he wanted her to know with pride. Clearing his throat, Tony looked up at Madeline and Dr. Gilbert’s expectant eyes, and said, “May I introduce our daughter, Nichol Courtney Rawlings.”
Madeline’s smile beamed, reaffirming the joy that now filled the suite.
When Claire awoke, she was lying on a bed in her room. Somehow, she knew it wasn’t their bed, but nonetheless, next to her propped against the headboard was her husband. When she turned toward him, her eyes opened wide and her lungs forgot to inhale. In his arms, wrapped in a blanket was a sleeping baby. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Claire lifted her head. Her body ached, yet she could move without effort. “I did it?” she asked as his tired eyes met hers. The soft chocolate color drew her nearer.
“Yes, Mrs. Rawlings, you did.” He leaned down and their lips met. Looking lovingly into her eyes, he added, “You did a superb job.”
Claire righted herself to sit beside her family. In the bend of her right arm was the too familiar pinch of an IV. Choosing to ignore the painful sensation, Claire concentrated on her family. Despite Tony’s obvious exhaustion, she saw the pride behind his expression. Once again, Tony brushed his lips against hers before he placed their baby in her arms. “May I introduce our daughter?”
Claire’s heart melted. “A girl—M—Madeline was right.”
Shaking his head, Tony replied, “I don’t think she should ever be doubted again.”
“We didn’t decide on a girl’s name.” Claire’s words came as she gently unwrapped the blanket, exposing the present she’d been carrying for nine months.
“She has a name.”
Claire looked up. “Oh?”
“There’s some island wives’ tale that forbids the changing to the next day without a name. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to risk our daughter having any unnecessary ill fortune.”
Claire tried to grasp the reality of not only having a daughter, but that she was already named. “Is it Raquel?” It had been his go-to name in all their debates.
“No, I wanted a name that would unite our family; one that said the Rawls vendetta is over.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. Tony’s words were more emotion filled than she could remember hearing. “What is it? What name did you choose?”
“Nichol.” Tony’s eyes begged for understanding.
Claire’s lips parted and her eyes sparkled. The game was done—no more strategizing or manipulating; instead of declaring a winner, they’d called it even. Their daughter’s name was Claire’s ultimate prize. Claire’s heart filled with pride. Immediately, she knew it was Tony’s way of telling their daughter she was both a Nichols and a Rawlings. “Oh, Tony, I love it! We never even talked about that.”
Tony’s chest moved as he exhaled with relief. “Nichol Courtney Rawlings.”
It was the most beautiful name she’d ever heard. As Nichol’s eyes opened and Claire saw the chocolate brown she loved, she whispered, “I wanted your eyes. You wanted a girl. We’ve been blessed with both of our wishes.” Nichol’s mouth rooted toward Claire’s breast.
Tony’s eyes drifted closed as his head fell back to the wall. It had been a long forty-eight hours. Before he fell asleep, Claire heard him say, “A wish, a dream, a miracle—Whatever it is, it’s real.”
It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
—Rose Kennedy
Sophia eased her car onto the circular brick drive in front of Marie’s massive house. On her cell phone, she heard Derek’s voice, “Have a nice lunch, babe. Is the house as nice as you anticipated?”
Her mouth gaped open as she looked up at the Romanesque-style mansion with facades of river stone, limestone, and brick. It was like something out of a 1940’s movie. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe she really lives here. Do people actually live like this?”
Derek laughed. “Well, she worked for Rawlings. That’s his house—or it was. No one knows if he’s alive or dead, but it’s probably not great table-talk for your lunch.”
“I’ll try to remember that—keep conversation topics away from missing employers. What did you say; she’s named the executor of his estate?”
“Yeah, the information I found just named her as a long-time trusted employee—”
Sophia interrupted, “Hey, honey, the front door’s opening. I should get out of the car. I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”
She heard him say he loved her as she turned off the car and the Bluetooth disconnected. “I love you, too,” she said to the warm air within the confines of her car. It was a stark contrast to the cold February chill between her and the mansion she was about to enter. Sophia secured her coat and gloves and bowed her face to the snowflakes as she hurried toward the grand doors.
The gentleman within nodded as her shoes hit the marble floor. Looking down, she saw the traces of snow that had fallen from her shoes and created puddles within the beautiful foyer. “Ms. Sophia?”
“Yes,” she said sheepishly. “Hello.” Sophia offered her hand.
The gentleman nodded again and said, “Ms. London is expecting you. May I take your coat?”
Sophia tried desperately not to gawk at her surroundings as she removed her coat and gloves and handed them to the butler—um—servant? She didn’t know who he was—only, that apparently, he didn’t shake hands. “Yes, thank you. Where is Mar—Ms. London? Is she here?”
“Yes, miss. She’s waiting for you in the sitting room. Please follow me.”
Each step reminded Sophia of a fantasy. Growing up in New Jersey and being a fan of the arts, Sophia loved watching old movies, especially those in black and white. If there was singing and dancing, it made it all the better. When she’d go to bed at night she’d think about the movies and the places the characters lived. She dreamt about mansions, servants, and opulence. As she grew up, Sophia learned that a life like she saw in the movies was mostly a world of fantasy. She could glean inspiration from it, but it didn’t truly exist. Stepping down into a warm sitting room, Sophia hypothesized—maybe this world did exist. She glanced toward a fireplace that was nearly the size of her living room in Provincetown. Within its limestone walls a warm fire roared, filling the room with warmth.
“Welcome, Sophia!” Marie said as she stood, placing the tablet she’d been reading on the nearby table.
Sophia leaned toward her friend and accepted her welcoming hug. “Marie, your house is amazing.”
Marie shrugged. “I know it seems that way, but after so many years—it’s just home.”
Looking through the windows, Sophia saw a sun room. Beyond, there was a large yard where blades of grass showed their heads through the thin layer of snow while more flakes swirled in the frosty air. Trees lined the yard creating a private haven. Refocusing on the room, Sophia concentrated on the heat radiating from the fire. “That fireplace is huge! On a day like today, it feels fantastic.”
Marie smiled. “It does feel good. Can I get you some coffee?” Before Sophia could answer, Marie corrected, “No, it’s tea you like, isn’t it? Would you like some warm Earl Gray?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
Within seconds, a woman was in the sitting room taking instructions from Marie. Sophia was sitting on the sofa talking with Marie when the woman returned with Sophia’s tea. Apparently, lunch would be ready momentarily. A few minutes later, a young girl rushed into the room with a piece of paper in her hand. Her voice cracked with each word, “Ms. London, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Cindy? Is there a problem?”
The young lady shook her head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I know you’re busy; however, perhaps later, I could speak with you...”
Marie turned her gaze toward Sophia.
Sophia didn’t know what to say. It was obvious there was an issue. “Marie, I’m in no hurry. If there’s something the two of you need to discuss, then I’ll gladly enjoy the fire.”
“Thank you, Sophia.” Marie turned toward Cindy. “Come with me to my office.”
As the two of them walked away, Sophia heard Cindy mention something about a letter, the FBI, and her parents. Before she could truly glean any meaning from the conversation, Marie and Cindy had disappeared down a long corridor. Sophia sighed. This was a strange and different world from anything she’d known. The owner of this house was missing, yet no one seemed concerned as they carried on their daily lives, and the young maid received letters from the FBI...Sophia leaned back against the plush sofa and looked into the flames. The crackle and snap of the wood added to the allure. In Provincetown, she and Derek’s home had a real fireplace. Everywhere they’ve lived since then had gas logs. Supposedly, the two were the same. Inhaling the distinct wood aroma, Sophia knew, they weren’t.
“Are you ready for lunch?” Marie asked, pulling Sophia from the hypnotism of the flames.
“Yes, is everything all right?” Sophia saw Marie brush her palms against her thighs. It was the same technique Sophia used when she tried to hide her uneasiness.
“Yes, let me show you to the dining room.”
As they walked, Marie mentioned that Cindy had worked for this estate for quite a few years. She was only eighteen when her parents died in a tragic accident. Now, it seemed the FBI was interested in their death and wanted to exhume their bodies.”
Sophia gasped. “Oh my! How terrible! I’d never let anyone do that to my parents.”
Marie’s hands again brushed her thighs as they sat. “Perhaps you’d be better to speak to Cindy than I? I knew her mother—we were friends. I recommended that she deny the FBI access. There’s no good to come from digging up the past.”
Sophia sat back against the high backed chair and gazed around the lovely dining room. The built-in cabinetry at one end of the table held exquisite china. When her gaze moved upward, Sophia saw the ornate ceiling with reflective gold flecks. “I agree. It’s better to move on.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent back in front of the fire, discussing art and upcoming events in the Quad Cities. Before Sophia was about to leave, she asked, “Marie, do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Not at all. I can’t promise I’ll answer, but ask away.”
“I really don’t have many people to talk to—not here anyway. The thing is”—Sophia hesitated—“before we left California, I received a call from my birth mother.”
Marie stared and slowly asked, “You received a call from the woman who recently died?”
Sophia shook her head, the absurdity of Marie’s statement made her grin. “No, the people who raised me were wonderful. I loved them and will love them forever; however, I was adopted. My parents were honest about it. I never felt deprived or less loved because my mother didn’t give birth to me. Honestly, I never really gave a damn about the woman who gave birth to me, or my biological father, until I got that call.”
Marie’s hands were again experiencing the sensory input of her slacks. “What happened after you got the call?”
“I started wondering about her and about him.”
Marie’s head tilted as her brow rose. “Him? You started wondering about your father?”
Sophia’s breathe expelled. “Well, yes! I mean, the woman who gave birth to me called, but what about my biological father? Are they still together? Did they love one another or do they still? Do they regret giving me up?”
“Oh, I see. Did you ask any of those questions?”
“No, I have a telephone number, but sometimes I think not knowing is better. I mean, I can make up my own answers.”
Marie smiled. “So, what’s your question, dear?”
Sophia readjusted her legs, curling one under herself as she leaned back into the plushness of the large chair. “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded far away. “I guess I just need to talk about it. Derek listens, but he’s protective. He doesn’t want me to get hurt.”
“Do you think you will?”
Sophia’s lips pressed together and she feigned a smile. “I’ve thought about the possibilities from all directions. If I learn I have this great set of biological parents who have a great life, then I’ll wonder why they didn’t want me to be a part of it. If I learn they didn’t stay together or they’re not good people, then I’ll wonder if dealing with me was part of the cause.”
Marie leaned forward and put her hand on Sophia’s knee. “That’s quite a decision. I’ve known many people who have done things they regret. Perhaps that’s why the woman called, or perhaps she regrets what she did thirty-three years ago; however, I don’t believe you should feel responsible for anything other than who you’ve become.” Marie’s gray eyes shimmered in the firelight. “Sophia, you’re an accomplished, lovely woman. The woman you spoke to should be proud.”
The scene melted as Sophia fought stoically not to cry. “I miss my mom and pop.” With the back of her hand, she brushed a renegade tear away. “Thank you Marie. I suppose the holidays left me feeling lonely.” She reached out and held Marie’s hand. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.”
“You know, we don’t seem that different in age, yet look, Cindy came to you when she had a problem, and now, so did I.” Sophia chuckled. “You’re probably sick of listening to everyone else’s troubles.”
“Not at all. I’m honored you feel comfortable enough to talk.”
“I do, and I think you’re right before—no good comes from digging up the past. I don’t want to know that woman. I’ve been blessed with great parents, a fantastic husband, and good friends. Why push my luck?”
After a delightful afternoon, Marie walked Sophia to the door. Once Marie watched Sophia’s car pull away and the barrier to the outside was closed, Catherine murmured, “Eighteen years; that’s our age difference, and you do not want to learn about the man who donated his DNA to make you—I refuse to consider him any kind of father. He doesn’t deserve any credit for the beautiful woman you are today! The way things are now is much better than bringing memories of that monster into the equation.”
As she walked toward her office, Catherine smiled, her words not audible to anyone, “In time, my dear, I promise, that it’ll be even better.”
Harry finished his report. His case in West Virginia was done. Tomorrow, he’d fly back to Palo Alto. He considered calling Liz and warning her, but as a sneaky grin came to his lips, he decided it would be more fun to surprise her. Since he’d been called away before Christmas, they hadn’t had a chance to celebrate the holiday. With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, he’d try to think of some way for them to enjoy the next one. Harry believed if he gave it a little thought, something would come up.
With a few minutes to spare before leaving the field office, Harry decided to utilize the bureau’s database. It didn’t take him long to back-door his way into his old case. Within seconds, he’d accessed the Rawlings/Nichols files. When he did, he was rewarded with new information. It appeared Anthony Rawlings had continued to stay in contact, as ordered by the FBI. Claire Nichols Rawlings had given birth to a healthy baby girl. For a split second, Harry wondered if the baby had blue or brown eyes. As fast as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it away. That wasn’t his purpose for this walk down memory lane. For the last two months Harry had successfully distanced himself from all things Rawlings/Nichols. He wanted to keep that distance—forever; however, there were a few things that kept eating at him. If he were to truly ever have closure—he needed to resolve some issues.
